


A Treacherous Memory

by nigellecter, TaeAelin



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaeAelin/pseuds/TaeAelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-canon, Nigel and Gabi don't remember each other nor what happened before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The pitch black dissipating as the thick gray fog clouds his vision, his eyes roll behind his still tightly shut eyelids as he makes an unfamiliar set of hands moving against his torso. Where the fuck am I, what happened to me? Even before his perception clears, his nostrils pick up the obvious scent as he takes a whiff,  familiar antiseptic and fresh crisp sheets assaulting his senses as he inhales deeply. The nurse is quick to register Nigel rousing and halts her movement, the bandage still clutched in her hands as a hand places on his shoulder. “ _Sunteți în sfârșit treaz_.” The nurse’s eyes widen as her tiny nimble fingers gives a gentle squeeze, watching the sun-kissed man’s orbs finally open. She had only seen him covered with all kinds of tubes and vital machines, then finally his chiseled and worn-out face revealed after few months when the man finally could breathe on his own.

The first thing he feels is the bandages on his head and the searing and prickling pain on his forehead. Something akin to bee sting, but amplified tenfold. The first instinct is to shift his hips and turn around to look at the woman, he judges by her soft skin. His eyes still closed, lashes feel especially sticky and heavy against his skin. Muscles atrophied and feeling the IV tube against the crook of his elbow and another one just above the back of his hand on particularly thick vein which throbs, only the tip of his fingers twitch and tap softly against the clean sheets.

When his hazel pupils finally open, the first thing that he makes out is how lithe and pale he had gotten. His broad and tall frame is still there, but is confined on the mattress. The steady beep of the machine confirms that he is indeed alive with all the injury he had sustained. Judging by a faint scar on the bridge of his nose, the bone had been broken once. And his usual greasy and long mane tamed and shaved off on the back. His chiseled cheekbone even more pronounced with lack of proper nutrients. And the last of all, the prominent scar on his left side. His memory is perfectly blank on the subject. How did I fucking get this goddamn ugly scar in the first place?

A weak and long sigh slipping out as his head slowly turns, his face twists up into a scowl as he looks up, his still bleary and liquid eyes still bewildered with all of this unfamiliar series of unfortunate events. “What the fuck happened to me?  _Am primit dracului împușcat sau înjunghiat sau ambele_?”  Okay, he knows he’s still in Romania and in a fucking hospital, but what exactly happened? The question seemed stupid, because he surely knows just what kind of injury he had sustained. The long diagonal gash stretching just under his armpit towards where his navel is, the distorted edges still flutter and the sensitive skin spasms as he relinquishes to the lassitude of his own body.

“Shot in the head, the neurologist were shocked to find your faint pulse afterwards. Thankfully, no risk of intracranial pressure nor hemorrhage were present, that’s what it kept you from facing an instantaneous death.” The nurse presses the button, administering more morphine as the knob turns over on the bag which hang over his head and he feels the numbing sensation sweep across, a floating feeling taking over. Drifting along on the water or clouds. Intrigued and quizzical at the same time, he still has myriad of questions as who the fuck had shot him, as he would soon find out and bring him to proper justice and the reason why he got himself into that sticky situation.

“So you were in a coma for a few weeks. You should feel very sleepy very soon. The body needs the time to adjust.” Nodding, a slight burning sensation passes as a hand runs over his jugular, above the inked pin-up girl tattoo. “You’ve had a visitor for a while, I wonder if she’s coming in today.” The nurse beams up as she helps Nigel to sit up, the bed whirling behind him as the bed slants upward. “A fucking visitor. I wonder who could it be.”

Unhindered light beating down against the undraped window as Nigel’s head slightly lifts to gaze down, the lush leaves of the trees flutter and dance in the summer breeze as it stirs up his mind as well. So he hasn’t been knocked out for that long. The dry bandage covering his torso, still littered with various degree of livid bruises and gashes, he faintly groans as the nurse finishes dressing him up.

Then, he hears a knock outside the door and the nurse smiles. 

____

_Gabriella Ibanescu._  She toyed with the identification band at her wrist, her name printed neatly on the waterproof plastic, along with her date of birth, a note about her penicillin allergy, and her hospital admission date. On her other wrist was the intravenous line, the catheter neatly tucked into her artery, held in place with a cotton ball and a strip of papery white tape. Gabi followed the line of the plastic tube, all the way back to the clear solution hanging next to her bed. It reminded her of a metronome; the even, methodical dripping, down into her arm.

“I think we can take that out today.”

Gabi looked up. She didn’t heard the doctor come in. A new doctor, too, the third new doctor since she arrived in Bucharest Emergency Hospital. And she only arrived three days ago.

Gabi tried to pull her mouth up at the corners. It was hard to try and look pleased about things like an IV being pulled from her vein, but this way, she wouldn’t have to keep detaching the tube every time she wanted to put on a jumper, or take a shower.

Pulling on her gloves, the doctor gave her a smile. Gabi caught a glimpse of her identification tag as the lanyard swung from beneath the white coat- Dr. Sasha Brașoveanu.

“Just Sasha is fine”, the doctor smiled again, laying a small, disposable square of plastic on Gabi’s lap. Like too many things in the ward, the plastic was an unnerving shade of aqua-blue, all bright and cheery and not at all how Gabi imagined a clinic should be. But then again, she had never actually been in one before. Trying not to look too stern, Gabi redirected her attention from Sasha’s hands to the window of her private room, the morning dew still wet on the other side of the glass. Over the horizon, she could almost make out the beautiful white dome of the Bucharest Opera House. She wished it had stayed that way.

“Would you like to tell me what happened, when you arrived in the hospital?”

Gabi sighed. The other two doctors had asked her the same thing. Deep down, she knew they were just trying to get her talking, assessing whether she was still disorientated or not. But it still wasn’t her story favourite to retell.

“I don’t remember the accident” she started. “But I remember who brought me in. It was a young man, an American. He said he was in the car with me.”

The doctor glanced up a fraction. “The same American who has been trying to visit you?”

“Yes.” Gabi nodded, slowly pulling her lower lip between her teeth. He came every day at noon, during the hospital visiting hour. It was sweet, that a stranger would still be so concerned for her, even days after it all happened. “But I haven’t spoken to him yet. I didn’t really want to see anyone…” she lifted her free hand toward the IV fluid bag, the cast making the gesture somewhat cumbersome. “…like this.”

With a gentle tug, the thin apparatus slid from Gabi’s wrist, Sasha pressing a fresh sterile swab over the needle-hole, then taping it down. “Of course. And after you arrived here?”

“When I realised where I was, I was very confused. The first thing I told the nurse was that they had to let me go, that I was late to meet my father at the airport.” Reaching for the clipboard at the edge of the bedframe, Sasha pencilled a few notes. Gabi was sure this all must have been recorded at the time. “That was when they told me my father was dead. He actually died three weeks ago.”

Sasha frowned, not unsympathetic. “And you recalled nothing of it?”

“Not at the time.” Gabi had been shocked more than anything else. It hadn’t seemed real enough to feel sad. “But now, I actually remember the funeral. So much of everything else is so hazy… but I remember saying goodbye to him. And the piece that played during the procession.”

_Impressions d'enfance._ Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t mentioned the damn song. Tears pricking the back of her eyes all over again, Gabi stared hard at her knees instead of the doctor’s face.

“And since you’ve been here…?” the voice was soft, encouraging. Gabi hated it.

“I don’t think about it. I’ve tried to do the exercises in the books. And I’ve visited the coma patient.”

At this, Sasha’s eyebrows raised a little, her head tilted to one side. “Oh? And why is that?”

Gabi didn’t know what had piqued the doctor’s interest. There was hardly much else to do, between group physiotherapy sessions she didn’t need, and the afternoon visit from the student psychiatrist, that Gabi suspected was as tiring for the young intern as it was for her. She’d be happier recovering in her own flat.

“He looks like he could use it? They said he’s been in for nineteen days. Gunshot wound. And nobody else comes to visit him.”

Sasha blinked back at her, some kind of thought crossing behind her eyes. “Well…” her tone was careful now. Deliberately light. “You might be interested to know he woke up this morning. Less than an hour ago, in fact.”

For some reason, the news made Gabi feel a little warmer. In truth, to see his face… she hadn’t thought he would be waking up at all.

Once she was certain the jingling of Sasha’s keys had faded down the hallway, Gabi got to her feet. One more visit wouldn’t hurt. Someone who could survive a bullet to that head like that… well, that wasn’t the sort of person you met every day. 

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious.


	2. Chapter 2

(three weeks ago)

“ _Rahat, într-adevăr m-am gândit a fost atingerea pentru pistol său._ ” The green cop, Petru Vasilescu, looks at Nigel’s lifeless body before immediately calling for an ambulance. Hesitantly lowering himself as he grabs the man’s bent left leg, he silently sighed in relief when he found out that the uncomfortably contorted leg hadn’t dislocated nor broken. Sighing with both regret and relief, Petru immediately accesses the unconscious man, definitely taller and broader than him. The blaring sound of hydroelectric dam merely becoming the white noise, once illuminating and spotlighting neon sign that says ‘ _Bun Venit la București,_ ’ which had been in the vicinity of his club, once the indication of bustling nightlife fizzes and flickers, the crackling sound erratically emitting before it goes out for good. The strong surge of water splashes water as the sheer force of water drowns out the blaring siren of the vehiculele de poliție.

Before the ambulance comes to take Nigel away, the cop checks for a stabilization of the man’s airway and circulation. During his training, he had learned that patients’ mortality increased if they were intubated in the field than in the hospital. He’s more than appalled with the amount of blood, looking black under the full moon fall upon the dense blood, the copper rich tang overwhelming against the late summer dampness of Romania. Watching his own reflection and Nigel’s profile glimmer against the puddle of crimson, Petru checks for Nigel’s pulse on his right hand, which also had been curved upward next to his face. He didn’t notice it before, but there was a faint, but sure smile plastered on the angular complexion, usually sun-kissed face turning pallid as more blood coagulates under Nigel’s ashen locks. 

Feeling feeble pulse under his fingertips, Petru’s fingers move to feel the jugular, for sure means of feeling the throbbing heartbeat underneath. Digits gliding on the inked surface as he takes note of the pin-up girl tattoo, slightly raised against the surface. The man must have gotten the tattoo retouched not too long ago. This time, it’s still weak and fluttering, but he’s indeed still alive. Just extraordinary. How could one survive this kind of acute and inevitable end of human life, which he had been sure would happen to the man. Miraculous.

Once Nigel’s body gets placed on a gurney, the medical personels try their best to reduce intracranial pressure, since it is the sole and independent predictor to indicate the poor outcome. He has his hopeless moments, the pressure spiking way more than the danger zone and his heart almost stops as weakly beating heart flatlines for a while the flurry of hands move to drain the blood and they hook him and minister hypertonic saline solution through the crook of his elbow, one of his fat veins responding as it bounces under the fingertip. 

And thankfully, once the ambulance makes to Bucharest Emergency Hospital, Nigel is stable enough, but has to be constantly monitored. No intubation needed, he could breath through his nose with the aid of oxygen mask and the small .22 caliber had been through and through and it wasn’t necessary to have a surgical operation on his brain. Induced in a coma, except atrophy of his muscles and slow recovery of his motor skills, the neurologists called it a phenomenon, writing many scholarly articles about Nigel’s swift recovery, a mere nineteen days. 

* * *

Briefly noticing that his prominent and distorted edge of the gash all cleaned and stitches taken out, more tingling sensation makes his skin itch, the back of his head close to hairless as he feels the stubble graze against the wrapped bandages as his head sinks more into the pillow. Before Nigel hears the nurse change the intravenous fluid bags on the pole to correct his electrolyte imbalances and to maintain his pressure. Although feeling debilitated, he looks up enthusiastically as his gaze raises towards the woman, who looks petite with brunette hair and porcelain white skin with deep-set eyes, not much chiseled and angular like him nor anyone who he can remember, vaguely, but strong and independent. 

His fingers, limp against the sterilized and clean sheets, his thumb brushes against the tube, looking briefly down at the identification band. At least he hasn’t forgotten his innate and true self. Nigel Lecter, born in twenty-second of November, about to turn fifty. He calculates by looking at the calendar next to him with squinted eyes. The light in the room still bright against his corneas as he tries to adjust. 

“So, you were the one that visited me every fucking day. The nurse told me I had no other visitors.”

____

A slow smile curled at the edge of Gabi’s mouth. His voice sounded rough, unused. But, like the weakened shell of his body, there was fire there too. He was interesting, that was for sure.

“Hm. Did she.” Gabi touched her hand to the railing of the bed, the arm with the cast still hung heavily by her side. As with many of her gestures since arriving in the hospital, she managed to make it look like she was merely slouching, coy and casual. In truth, neither her balance nor energy had yet returned since the accident. But they were hardly going to discharge her if she let that show. As the nurses finished fussing with the man’s IV fluids, Gabi gripped the bedframe a little tighter, only allowing herself to lean on it once they had finally left the room.

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the window, Gabi was glad she didn’t look as exhausted as she felt. On learning her clothes had been cut off in the operating theatre, Gabi had asked if the nurses might purchase her anything other than a pastel green hospital gown. There was a substantial gift shop on the ground floor, after all. On being told they were all too busy, perhaps another day, Gabi had doubled her monetary incentive for their kindness. A lot of free time had suddenly become available, and she now wore jeans and a jumper, black as her eyeshadow, the gowns thrust back onto the nurses’ station where they belonged.

“They didn’t want you to have any visitors, at first.” Gabi recalled the first evening she had arrived, her curious turn of the handle. The room that nobody seemed to go in. The nurse who had hurried over to stop her.

_“Do you know who that is? I’m not sure it’s a good idea…”_

_“No, I don’t know who it is. But if I don’t like who it is… I don’t have to visit him again.”_

As it turned out, Gabi had liked who it was more than she expected. Perhaps she had always had a strange fascination with things that were wounded, or things that were beautiful. She had looked at his hands, once. All hard and fragile at once, long fingers as artful as they were strong. But what interested her the most was exactly  _where_  his hands were worn. It told her something most people wouldn’t notice- this man frequently held a gun. She knew, because she held a gun too. The only thing she didn’t know, was why.

“They changed their minds soon enough. Perhaps it was my… hidden charms.” Gabi gave him a crooked smile. She wasn’t very good at making jokes, and mostly, she didn’t care for them either. But the man had just been alone with his thoughts, possibly even nightmares, for the last nineteen days. It didn’t hurt to try.

Taking a step toward to his side, she raised her identification band. “Gabriella Ibanescu. Six rooms down, on the left. Broken rib, broken arm, fractured shoulder.” She bit her tongue on the last of it-  _and suffering from post-traumatic memory loss._  She would recover from that soon enough. No need to sound overdramatic.

Staring into the man’s eyes, Gabi was almost tempted to move a fraction closer. Sliding beneath the black pupils, she could almost imagine she caught a glimpse of something warm, something familiar. And something dangerous.

Yes. She recognised something in this man. It was the same thing she could feel within herself, while so much of what was real had become so hard to grasp. Nothing had come to him easy. Which, like her, was what made him fight for it even harder, even more.

She didn’t know this man, not at all. And at the same time, she felt she had known him forever. And still wanted to know more.


End file.
